


Sherlock POV: A Study in Pink

by n00blici0us



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-27
Updated: 2011-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-23 03:03:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/n00blici0us/pseuds/n00blici0us
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Study in Pink, but from Sherlock's eyes</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock POV: A Study in Pink

John Watson seems like a nice enough guy, Sherlock thinks as he introduces himself. “The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon,” he runs back down to the morgue to collect his riding crop and he wonders, briefly, if John will even show up. But then he smiles—John is clearly intrigued by him and he isn’t the type of guy not to try to find out more. Hopefully that will be enough to keep him as a flatmate.

And that conclusion bears out even further when he invites John with him to the crime scene because John wants to know what he does.

“The police don’t consult amateurs,” John says.

Sherlock sighs. He had wanted to preserve a bit of mystery, but it seemed that John wanted to hear it all now. He begins, “When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq.”

Then, having finished his dissertation on all that he noticed about John when he first saw him, he sits back in the taxi. “You see then, you were right.”

“I was right?” asks John.

“The police don’t consult amateurs,” he says as he waits for the inevitable. This is it, Sherlock thinks. This is the moment when John thinks that he’s crazy and won’t have anything more to do with him. He’ll have to find a new flatmate. And just when he was thinking it might work, even though John did think that all his worldly possessions were rubbish. He sighs inwardly. Oh well, he couldn’t have kept his mouth shut much longer anyway. He was bound to make a startling conclusion and drive John away at some point.

Instead—“That was amazing,” John says.

He is puzzled, “Do you think so?”

“Of course it was,” says John. “Extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say,” he finds himself saying, unable to keep a glimmer of shock off his face and the start of relief that jolts his bones.

“What do people normally say?” asks John, as if he can’t imagine.

“Piss off,” he answers drily, well aware of the effect that he has on people.

Then they arrive at the crime scene and he’s spared any further explanation on his part. Sergeant Donavan does it for him with her greeting of “Hello, freak.”

He hears the derision in her voice and that just spurs him on to make his observations. “Even though you didn’t make it home last night,” he says genially to her, readying his steel trap. Plenty of time for John to run away now, now that he knows what others see when they look at Sherlock. A freak show. He notices too much and can’t keep his mouth shut about it. He thrives on being right and on other people knowing that he’s right.

“A colleague of mine, Dr. Watson,” he introduces John, because he doesn’t have any other identifiers for John yet. Usually he can categorize people so easily, but John is breaking all the molds.

“Colleague?” she scoffs at him. “How did you get a colleague?”

Ah, Anderson approaches. The trap’s already been set.

He doesn’t put his usual smugness into his final jab, letting the words shroud around them instead. “I’m sure Sally came around for a nice little chat and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors, judging by the state of her knees.” Then he turns around and walks in with a grand flourish, leaving John to bring up the rear. Ah, damn, he thinks. He shouldn’t have let his temper get a hold of him and put forth such a poor showing in front of John just yet. Now he’ll definitely think that Sherlock is some sort of weirdo who enjoys rubbing his intelligence in other people’s faces. Even if that is the truth, it should take a little time for John to figure it out himself. But when John doesn’t comment on his cutting remarks, Sherlock thinks that maybe there is a faint note of…not quite approval in the silence, but not outright derision. So that’s something.

They make it upstairs to the actual crime scene, Sherlock rebuffing the blue crime scene uniform as per his usual. He can’t help but make an utter arse of himself when he snaps at Lestrade to shut up, even as the man protests that he hadn’t said a word. He supposes that it isn’t Lestrade’s fault that Sherlock can just sense his thoughts bumbling about slowly, not quite reaching the right conclusions, interfering with Sherlock’s own thought processes about other things. He tries to make it up by asking, “Dr. Watson? What do you think?”

“Of the message?” John answers, a bit plaintively.

“Of the body, you’re a medical man,” Sherlock points out.

They’re both kneeling by the body now, Lestrade having admitted quite plainly that he needed Sherlock. “What am I doing here?” John says quietly.

“Helping me prove a point,” he says earnestly. He’s trying, honestly. Letting John put forth his opinion in this case and everything.

A pause for some examination and then—“Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on her. Could have been a seizure, possibly.”

“You know what it was; you’ve read the papers.”

“What, she’s one of the suicides, the four?”

Finally he can stand it no longer. His two minutes are up and Sherlock has long reached his conclusions.

“Oh for god’s sake, if you’re just making this up!” Lestrade exclaims, exasperation coloring his voice.

Sherlock snorts in derision. Hardly. He sees that he’ll have to explain everything then, a waste of time to him since he’s already figured it out so he fairly trips over his words in his haste to get all the unnecessary explaining out of the way.

Throughout his thinking out loud John marvels at his work. “That’s brilliant,” he says in wonder. Sherlock looks at him in surprise. It’s been... well, never, since anyone has been impressed by him and not upset by what he did. “That’s fantastic,” John announces again.

“Do you know you do that out loud?” Sherlock asks him.

“Oh, sorry, I’ll shut up,” John apologizes.

“No, it’s… it’s fine,” Sherlock replies, feeling a warm bubble of pride rise up in his chest. He has a proper audience now. It spurs him on, drives him to higher heights and then—the suitcase! It’s all too much for him and he has to pursue his avenues of thoughts right now so he darts away as per his usual. It isn’t until after he’s had the satisfaction of finding the pink suitcase nestled in the dumpster less than an hour later that he remembers that he left John at the crime scene with no discernible way of getting back to Baker Street. Damn.

When he gets back to Baker Street, pink suitcase in tow like a trophy, he isn’t surprised to find it empty save for Mrs. Hudson downstairs. Sherlock shrugs philosophically. It was better for John to learn early that Sherlock could be a bit unthinking and bail out early rather than be disappointed much later. Theory borne out by experience. But he sends John a series of texts anyway, to see if he can’t tempt him back. He isn’t surprised that John doesn’t respond—it had been a bit too much to hope for that John’s sense of wonderment would make him blind to all of Sherlock’s faults—so he settles himself on his couch to think, unbuttoning his sleeves and efficiently taping on three nicotine patches.

He is lying there on the couch when John limps up the stairs. He plays it casual, noting to himself now that this encounter might be the third time that John has surprised him tonight. If John does stick around, at least he will be entertaining, maybe even provide Sherlock with a bit of a challenge every once in a while.

John actually mentions that he met an enemy—an archenemy—of Sherlock’s. “Did he offer you money to spy on me?” Sherlock asks, already knowing who John met—Mycroft.

“Yes,” John answers.

“Did you take it?”

“No,” John says, almost affronted by the idea.

“Pity, we could have split the fee. Think it through next time,” Sherlock scolds him. John should know that there are few who could outwit him. “Just enter the number,” he orders. “Are you doing it?” he asks.

“Yes,” John answers.

“Have you done it?” he asks again, impatiently.

“Yes, hang on,” John says with a touch of annoyance in his voice. Good. John won’t be easily bullied by Sherlock then.

“Type and send it, quickly,” he says as he unfolds himself off the couch and grabs the pink suitcase, unzipping it open. He realizes the exact instant that John realizes the owner of the pink bag. “Oh perhaps I should mention,” he says sarcastically, recognizing the look in John’s eyes, “I didn’t kill her.”

“I never said you did,” John says quickly, too quickly.

“Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have the case, it’s a perfectly logical assumption,” he says, stressing the word logical. He is logical. He can only expect others to be the same. His feelings aren’t hurt that John thought that he might be the killer. It would just show good judgment and sound thinking on John’s part.

“People just assume you’re the murderer?” John asks.

“Now and then, yes,” he says flatly, knowing that his penchant for noticing things enables him to also notice when people feel intensely nervous to stay around him. The phone ringing breaks the slightest bit of tension in the room.

He itches to just run out, abandon John again. It takes so much longer when two people are involved than when he is just running about, chasing down leads solo, but he restrains himself. “Mrs. Hudson took my skull,” he says mournfully, slowing himself down on purpose to give John time to catch up.

“So I’m basically filling in for your skull?” John says, but he grabs his cane anyway.

They get to the restaurant and Sherlock claims the seat facing the window, needing to keep a keen eye out for their killer. Angelo comes by, effusive with praise. “You did go to prison,” he points out matter-of-factly, trying to forestall any further conversation. It is usually effective. “You may as well eat,” he says to John. “We might have a long wait.”

But John wants to keep talking. “You don’t have a girlfriend then?”

“Girlfriend?” Sherlock asks, distracted, “No, not really my area.”

“Oh right. Do you have a boyfriend?” John asks after a small pause. “Which is fine by the way,” he adds quickly.

“I know it’s fine,” Sherlock says testily, keeping half his attention outside when it suddenly occurs to him, what if John has been staying around him all day, admiring his work because he’s interested in that way? “John,” he says carefully, because he knows from past experience that one must be cautious when telling someone else that they are not interested. “I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work,” he says after a moment’s thought. There, that sounded respectable. “And while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for anything,” he adds, because despite it all, he really doesn’t want to insult John and maybe they could still work together if he let John down easy.

“What? No, not I’m not asking—I’m just saying, it’s all fine,” John says.

Sherlock smiles in relief. “Good. Thank you.” And he diverts all of his attention back to the window.

A cab pulls up. Sherlock’s mind fits together some more puzzle pieces and then he’s off running. He rolls neatly off the hood of the car that nearly hits him, but the cab speeds away.

“I’ve got the cab number,” announces Watson breathlessly, predictably without his cane. Psychosomatic pain indeed.

“Good for you,” he says, doling out a bit of praise as he—“Think, right turn, one way, roadwork, traffic lights, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic light,” he looks up and they’re off in pursuit of the cab.

When they get back to the flat, adrenaline still coursing through their veins, they haven’t caught the killer yet, but Sherlock can feel that he’s close to something. Mrs. Hudson comes up, “Oh Sherlock,” she cries. “What have you done?”

“Mrs. Hudson?” he asks, not understanding.

“Upstairs.”

He runs upstairs, taking them two at a time to find Lestrade sitting in his armchair, surrounded by about a dozen police officers. “What are you doing?” he demands. But he already knows. Lestrade gives him pretty fair reign over the crime scene, but he wants—expects—results and Sherlock gallivanting about hasn’t given him any results.

“It’s a drugs bust,” Lestrade announces simply.

Oh damn. Sherlock hadn’t wanted John to find out about this just yet.

“Seriously, this guy, a junkie?” asks John, his voice indignant.

“John, you probably want to shut up now,” Sherlock says, staring at him, trying to impart the truth to him with his eyes.

“Yeah, but come on. What, you?” John directs his question to Sherlock this time.

Sherlock sees the moment that pity comes and he snaps, “Shut up,” wanting to replace it with anything, even anger or disgust. “I am clean. I don’t even smoke,” he declares, unbuttoning his cuffs, showing off the clean, unblemished skin in the crook of his elbow. It had been ages since he had taken a needle and there were no visible bruises, no track marks.

“Neither am I,” Lestrade says jovially, showing him the underside of his own arm. Then he’s telling Sherlock about Rachel and really, this is the information that he should have led with.

“That’s not right,” he interrupts, when Lestrade tells him about Rachel’s non-birth. “That was ages ago; why would she still be upset?” The silence in the room tells him that he’s mis-stepped, again, but he’s not quite sure why. He turns to John, hoping for some answers. “Not good?”

“A bit not good, yeah,” John answers, but at least he doesn’t look at him with total disgust. To be fair, Sherlock doesn’t actually have an empirical data on what it feels like to have a child, so how could he know the appropriate period of time to mourn over the death of one?

Sherlock seethes at the intrusion of his privacy but he understands Lestrade’s game. He has something from their venture to Northumberland tonight, he knows it, but it jiggles just at the edge of his mind. Think, think, he commands himself, but he’s distracted by all the movement around him, the knowledge that Anderson is touching his things, Mrs. Hudson babbling about a cab driver, the sheer overwhelming presence of so many people in his flat and Lestrade’s unwavering stare in his periphery. It all boils up inside him, rising in crescendo, floodgates waiting to crash open upon anyone when, “Mrs. Hudson!” he roars as she tries to mention a cab driver waiting downstairs, yet again. “That’s it,” he breathes, his mind having come to the right conclusion. He knows he should feel bad for snapping at Mrs. Hudson again and in such a manner, especially following his slip up with Rachel, but his mind is moving too fast for him to be able to care about that anymore. No one catches up with him though. “Look at you lot; you’re all so vacant. Is it nice,” he wonders out loud, “to not be me? It must be so relaxing.” Everyone looks away from him, including John. Another bit of a misstep then, too. He supposes that people don’t like to be reminded that they are usually all very stupid, but it’s hard for him not to comment on it, especially given how slow everyone is being.

He taps out the information on the computer, but he already knows that it will bear out his conclusion. He has moved on to thinking about the next part of the puzzle when—“Sherlock,” John says insistently, his tone making it clear that he’s been repeating his name. “It’s here. It’s in 221 Baker Street.”

“Maybe it was in the case somewhere and it fell out?” Lestrade asks.

And in that instant, he knows. He hears the echo in his mind, “Sherlock, dear, there’s a taxi driver waiting for you downstairs.”

“Just popping outside for a moment,” he announces suddenly. “Won’t be long.” He can’t slow down to bring John to this one. He strides down the stairs and sure enough, the cab is waiting for him. And damn it all, he knows that he’s going to get inside that cab because he wants to chase this feeling of being alive. And he goes wherever the cabbie drives him.

He knows that the killer knows this fact about him, wants to use it to his advantage. He stares at the pills in front of him. He keeps his hands under the table so that the killer can’t see them twitch in anticipation. “It’s a game of chance,” he repeats, but he really just wants to grab his choice and have them both take their medicine. It is a game and Sherlock always wins at games.

“I bet you get bored, don’t you?” the killer asks, his words running silky smooth over Sherlock. “You’d do anything, anything at all, to stop being bored.”

The truth is, yes, of course he’s bored and he’s tired. He’s tired of feeling like the outcast, watching other people live their lives with ease while every day is merely a tedious chore for him, having very little to excite him about living. He feels as though he’s screaming at an empty room, clawing at the walls, looking for any kind of escape. He holds the pill up to the light, inspecting it, looking for any flaws, but he’s made his choice and he’s willing to take this medicine, anything to get him out of the boringness of everyday life. He could just swallow it and it might all be over, sinking to an abyss. Or he might feel that fleeting rush of happiness knowing that he outsmarted yet another person.

The bullet rips past him with surprising speed. And before long, it’s all over, with just one more puzzle piece elicited—Moriarty—stolen from a dying man’s breath. He wonders for a brief moment if other people would feel guilty over the pain he elicits, but he dismisses his thought just as quickly.

Sherlock’s still feeling the rush from just barely cheating death and watching a man die right in front him when Lestrade comes over to him as he sits in the back of the ambulance, an orange blanket draped around him. He’s spouting the conclusions that he’s come to about the shooter to Lestrade when he catches sight of John standing by the ambulance and it hits him. Of course. How stupid of him not to have seen earlier. John is the shooter. John shot the killer. For him. To protect him. And while Mycroft might have done it out of being his brother, John has no such obligations to Sherlock. Maybe he will actually stick around. He brushes off the rest of Lestrade’s comments, protesting shock, holding up his orange blanket as proof. Then he walks over to John, just to let him know that he knows. “I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case,” he says, reassuring John the best way he knows how.

They walk away, Sherlock actually feeling hungry enough to propose dinner, knowing that John at least wants to eat. He congratulates himself on being so thoughtful.

“Sherlock. That’s him. That’s the man,” John says with a hint of panic in his voice.

It is Mycroft, as expected. The whole conversation bores him terribly and he can barely be arsed to even come up with a half-witty insult. “Good evening Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does to traffic,” he says flatly. He probably shouldn’t let John see his petty sibling rivalry just yet, but really, Mycroft was the one who brought up Mummy being upset.

Over dim sum, John tells him that Mycroft said he had no friends. Mycroft was always unfailingly honest. Of course Sherlock knows that he doesn’t make friends easily, if ever. Few people can tolerate him, and most of them only in small doses. If anything, if he thought about the problem analytically, he could consider Mycroft his only friend and even then it might not count, seeing as how he was also the elder brother and forced to like—love—Sherlock. Sometimes Sherlock resents that, Mycroft’s ability to lead a nearly normal life while he, Sherlock, lives outside of the rest of society. He knows that he comes off as brash and harsh; he just can’t seem to filter his words, slow them down enough for all the dull people in the world. But John, John might actually be able to keep up at least half the time and—big point in his favor—he’s not Mycroft.

Plus, John just shot a man for Sherlock.

Yes, Sherlock smiles at his half uneaten plate of dumplings. He wants to keep John.

..finis...


End file.
